


The Way That You Keep Screaming

by Thysanotus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BDSM, Chan, Dark, Dom/sub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-29
Updated: 2005-10-29
Packaged: 2018-10-27 07:29:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10804623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thysanotus/pseuds/Thysanotus
Summary: The truth was not always what it appeared.





	The Way That You Keep Screaming

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

This is for Nellie Flounder [a.k.a. darkasphodel], who asked for "Sirius/Harry. You had me at dark. Go nuts." I hope you didn't mean go nuts, literally, Nellie, although it was tempting. Um. I really really hope you like this, you have no idea. Although, if you don't, you can always stare at my hot face. Thanks have to go to xylodemon, sioniann and __goldie for beta-reading, and to irana for the general idea.

 

1\. He slurs words into your ear as he fucks you, fingers printing purple patterns across the bone of your hips. The consonants spread over your skin, hiss of the final letter branding itself into your consciousness.

These days, life is about surviving from one moment to the next. You forgot your grand plans the moment he shoved his cock up your arse.

He always fucks you dry. After the first few weeks, the days blur together into a dark mist. You lost the strength to fight back. You suppress the treacherous thought, huddling on the cold stones as you wait.

2\. You leave the battlefield, shoulders slumped, head bowed, and a taste of ashes in your mouth. The light is wrong; it should be bleak, grey, not this harsh unrefined sunlight that dries your eyes.

You raise your eyes to the horizon, Hermione’s missing presence on your right too new to be painful. At least Ron didn’t see her cowering at the end, you think, and wince as the harsh snap of your wand reverberates through the warm air.

The manacles around your wrists clank together as you move down the line of tattered and broken prisoners. The cloaked figure at the desk looks up, the white mask blank with disinterest and disgust.

“Next.”

You shuffle to the desk, chains around your ankles limiting movement, cold fire pinchingtwisting with each step.

“Name?” the Death Eater asks, bored.

“Potter, Harry,” you reply quietly.

The ugly black quill scrawls black lines across the parchment.

“Crime?”

You sigh. The Death Eater looks up, and you catch Draco Malfoy’s eyes, burning with rage and fanaticism.

The light is wrong. How - ironic you think, miserably.

3\. You snuffle pinkly in his arms, your damp weight cloying. He shifts your awkward weight, jostling your head against his chest, and you squeak irritably. Furtively, he glances over your shoulder, but there are no footsteps coming down the stairs, no voices raised in question.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he juggles baby and warmed bottle as he fumbles his way toward the sofa, the faint glow from the damped fire guiding his steps. You make a slight noise of protest at the too-hot milk, and he curses under his breath again.

You sit with him as the sun rises, the light shifting across the room, dawn sweeping in on some unknown tide. The milky baby scent is reassuring, the weight of you across his chest comforting. He presses his lips to the dome of your head, a wordless promise. I’ll always be here, Harry. Always.

4\. He can’t seem to stay quiet when he fucks, an endless stream of words spilling past his lips, silencing to a whisper and gasp when he comes. He forces you to watch, spelling your eyes open, laughing as the tears run down your cheeks.

The dark-haired Muggle on the bed is floppy, arms askew, legs splayed. There is a trickle of semen drying on his inner thigh, the same colour as the glaze in his eyes.

5\. When he goes back to their house, sifts through the pile of ashes, he thinks he might feel a momentary twinge of guilt. There is a soot-smudged silver photo frame, the glass in it shattered into a crystal starburst.

Sirius can just make out Lily and James, frowning slightly as they wave though the hazy drift of glass. Lily is brushing dirt from her dress. James hasn’t seemed to notice that his jacket has a hole in the elbow.

Dropping the battered picture back in the rubble, Sirius apparates from the gathering chill, the looming Dark Mark doing nothing to improve the general atmosphere.

6\. You still remember that day, the day when your breath misted in front of you like dragon smoke and you saw your godfather again.

7\. His latest favourite game when fucking you, fingers pinching cruelly at your hips, driving in and out, is to casually rest his hand on your neck. As his movements become more hurried, frantic, he leans harder and harder on your throat, smiling cruelly as your eyes bulge and you gasp for air.

You can feel your pulse throbbing in your lower lip, your head ready to burst. You wonder what would happen if it did. Would he piece you back together, an easily repairable fuck toy?

Would he cry, salt dripping over his chin to pool messily with your blood and brains spattered over the floor?

Or, and you think this most likely, would he saunter down to the dungeons, hands tucked neatly in back pockets, whistling that off-key tune as he forces the air between his front teeth, beckoning at the dark haired boy with the blue and bronze tie?

8\. Lingering snatches of life before play through your mind. You know he was supposed to be the good one, the one who said he’d look after you. You wonder dully if you’d gone to live with him when he asked if he would have raped you that first night.

Stood at the doorway to listen to your breathing deepen to a soft, even rhythm. Crossed the room to watch the moonlight striping your face in silver, lashes heavy on your cheek.

Stretched out a hand to brush over your exposed shoulder, slipping the covers down slowly. You might have shifted sleepily, then, the breath of cool air tickling your neck.

He might have shifted, ready to smooth your fringe and mouth the easy lie – “You looked like you were having a nightmare, Harry, I was concerned,” but you would have simply changed position, breathing out with a content sigh.

You wouldn’t have woken up fully until the first thrust into you, a ripping pain that you’d only ever felt before on your forehead as the beast grunted behind you.

The scream would have broken free from your throat, taken wing on the silent night. And his hands would have clenched around your throat as you scrabbled desperately under his weight.

He would have flinched at the angry red fingerprints that mark your neck the next morning. You would have looked away from him, eyes drifting to the corner of the ceiling as he roughly tilts your chin to look at the bruises.

When he asks you where they came from, you would have flinched. He would fit his fingers to the marks, measuring you up, squeezing tighter, a silent warning.

9\. It’s always someone else’s name he grinds out when he fucks you.

10\. You’re used to sitting on the floor of the closet, jagged splinters from the unfinished floorboards prickling against your bare skin. The scar tissue around your wrists deadens you to the feel of the cold metal, chains jangling dissonantly as you shift slowly.

The first time he locked you away in this tiny space, you shrieked endlessly, throat bleeding and raw when he finally let you out. Now, you huddle with knees to chest, a vacant stare.

You don’t like being left alone with your thoughts.

11\. The monster’s eyes were red, red with a centre of deepest, purest black. You fell into them, spinning end-over-end into a night devoid of hope.

The slow hiss, the vaguest suggestion of words did nothing to reassure you.

“This one will be a fine gift for my most loyal servant.”

You know the crowd around you jeered, the chains on your wrists tightening as you struggled for escape, relief from the darkness cloaking your soul.

12\. When he fucks you, you remain silent. This cardinal rule has been beaten into you over weeksmonthsyears, the silvery pale welts across your back almost reminding you of something else as you slink past the window.

13\. Outside, it is snowing. He perches you on the window ledge. Tells you to look at the snow. You feel his hands busy at your throat, the warmth of a scarf around your neck. Familiar redandgold tassels drift across your naked thigh, teasing warmth for a brief moment.

The stone of the ledge is cold under your naked arse, your knees drawn to your chest again and chin in hand.

You can hear the bed creak as he sits, leans back. You know what he’s doing, have seen this ritual often enough with countless other dark-haired lithe boys.

Today is different though; you could taste the spark in the air from the moment he returned your glasses to you.

14\. He lets you sleep in the bed that night, gathers you in his arms, kisses your scars. You can’t sleep, watching the snow fall endlessly behind your eyes.

He doesn’t like your eyes; tells you to close them, to not look at him. You are obedient, keep them modestly downcast, fearing the sudden slap that will send your ears ringing and teeth spinning over the floor.

It’s not until he’s asleep that you allow yourself to relax, taking a deep breath, sending the restraints chiming softly, an odd music that blends with the rhythmic snores behind you.

James. The name makes you shudder.

15\. It seemed like a miracle when he appeared through the crowd that day, haloed in the bright winter sunshine. Your heart felt like it would burst through the narrow confines of your ribcage, too joyous and exulted to be restrained by something as flimsy as bone.

16\. Defeat tastes like bitter almonds spreading across the surface of your tongue, slowly welling to fill every crack in your chapped lips. You shiver in the cold breeze from the open window, numbed to the chill rising from the stones below your naked body.

He stands over you, eyes too wide. The strip of white revealed around the rims is bloodshot. He looks crazy, teeth bared in a grin, fingers hooked into claws as he snarls at you.

You’re pinned, spreadeagled, legs tied to the bed, manacles anchored through rusty rings embedded in the stone floor.

The whimper that escapes your throat shames you, and the resultant slice of his nail along the flesh of your belly not unexpected.

He keeps his nails raggedly sharp, pressing them to your skin, carving delicately until you look up at him, wearing a delicate tracery of your own blood, whorls and spirals etched carefully over your skin.

The bloodflow is always staunched before it becomes lethal, a negligent wave of his hand keeping the cuts open and glistening. The blood pooling around your body lends a momentarily illusion of warmth.

17\. You think the worst moments are when the cupboard door cracks open slightly, a pale shaft of light lining the floor, and liquid black eyes meet yours.

He will curl himself around you, head resting on heavy paws. The wheeze of his breathing echoes around you both, hiding your sobbing gasps.

Insistently, inevitably, he will nudge your thigh with that furry head, tongue brushing across the head of your cock.

You always try to push him away, you tell yourself, justifying yourself to memories.

18\. Eventually, through ragged gasps and liquid words, you begin to piece a shattered crystalline version of the truth together.

Idolisation from afar. thou shalt have no other gods beside me. The slippery slide to friendship and the certain betrayal.

You stand with him as he returns to shiver on the floor, after-effects of the Cruciatus curse wracking his body. His cousin prods him with one delicate foot and sniggers.

The tile is cool and solid under his – yours – his cheek. The idea is as solid in your shared mind as though it is your own.

19\. He tells you, as he fucks you, that he knows you know.

He wanted you to know, all along. He wants you to know his truth, as his hands close about your neck once more.

The darkening circles swell in your vision, sparking off one another. You feel your tongue swelling, imagine you feel your eyes bursting as his nails dig into your back, flesh peeling away from your bones in ribbons.

20\. He always told you it wasn’t your fault. That you were only paying for someone else’s mistake.

That thought did nothing to reassure you at the end.


End file.
